Pay it Forward
by AcrobatElle
Summary: Breaking your ankle is one thing. Breaking your ankle three days after you moved into a fifth-floor walkup is something else entirely. Neighbors AU.
1. Chapter 1

The fifth-floor walk up hadn't seemed like a bad idea when she signed the lease.

It was cheaper, for one, and it was all she could do to afford her little studio apartment on the edges of Chinatown. Moving in the dead of winter helped, too; most people weren't stupid enough to try and find a new place in New York City in the middle of January.

 _It's worth it_ , she told herself when she forked over the deposit, along with the first and last month's rent, _and_ the fee for the real estate agent, and why the hell did she think it was a good idea to move to New York City in the first place?

The thin promise of opportunity had been enough for Emma, and the tremendous cost of moving there was outweighed by the idea of one giant, centralized metropolis full of potential bail-jumpers. Besides, she couldn't afford her shared apartment once her roommate moved out to live with her boyfriend. Renewing the lease would have been stupid, and if the experience taught her anything, it was that she couldn't stand sharing a living space with someone else. Elsa was the only person she'd even consider, but she was already locked in for a yearlong lease in her little studio. Alone was better.

(If she said it enough times, she would start to believe it.)

Being able to get rid of her car was one of the biggest selling points - she loved her yellow bug, but the insurance and constant need for repairs kept setting her behind. It never failed - just when she thought she'd be able to make up some ground on her credit cards, the brakes would go, or the alternator decided to take a shit, or… god, she couldn't even keep track of everything that went wrong with it. Better to sell the damn thing and relocate to a city where she could walk everywhere. Her car might give out, but her legs wouldn't.

She'd lived in the city for precisely three days when she broke her ankle.

She didn't see the patch of ice at first. Thankfully, neither did her mark, and his sudden loss of balance was what allowed her to finally catch up to him and tackle him to the ground. There was a stinging sensation and a bit of numbness, but it wasn't until she slapped on the handcuffs and tried to stand up that the adrenaline rush faded and she fell back on her ass because her ankle wouldn't support her weight and Jesus Christ, that hurt.

She refused the ambulance (too expensive) and clung to a parking meter for balance while she hailed a cab. She grit her teeth as she hopped into the car, her ankle throbbing with every jolt along the way, and God, she was fucked.

"How long?" she asked tersely when the doctor finally came back with her x-rays.

"Two months," he told her, barely looking up from his clipboard. "We'll get you wrapped up and set up with some crutches in the meantime." He scribbled on a pad of paper and handed her a prescription for painkillers. "There's a pharmacy on the second floor. In four weeks you can come back and get fitted for a walking cast, but you need at least a week of rest so your bones can set properly."

The doctor narrowed his eyes when she scowled. "I'm serious, Miss Swan. You'll be looking at permanent damage if you don't allow this to heal."

"Got it," she muttered.

"Do you have someone who can help you get home when we're done here? The subway isn't the easiest place to navigate on crutches. I'd recommend taking a cab otherwise."

"…yeah, I'll be fine."

"All right, Miss Swan. A nurse will be with you in a moment."

Emma pulled out her phone as soon as the doctor left, opening the fare estimator app she'd downloaded the day before. Morningside Heights was a long way from Chinatown, but it was getting late. Maybe with the lack of traffic it wouldn't…

 _Fare estimate: $51.35._

She sighed. The subway it was.

* * *

It wasn't that walking with crutches was all that difficult. Emma got the hang of it pretty quickly, in fact. But her ankle _hurt_ , and she could feel the skin under her arms being rubbed raw, and her messenger bag kept throwing her off-balance, swinging and whacking at her thigh with every labored step.

She was in good shape, dammit. She hadn't counted on her arms getting so tired so quickly, but apparently chin-ups were utterly useless in building the necessary muscles to navigate crutches. Her biceps felt like lead. Quivering, shaking-with-effort lead.

The usual ten-minute trek from the subway station to her apartment turned into a forty-minute slog, and she nearly ate it a few times as she tried to avoid the ice and slush on the sidewalks. She'd be freezing if she weren't so warmed up with exercise.

Sinatra could kiss her ass. New York _sucked_.

Opening a heavy door while on crutches was a pain in the ass, too - unable to hold it open and move at the same time, the damn thing slammed into her shoulder as she fought to wedge herself inside the apartment building. The place didn't have a doorman, and there wasn't a soul around to help her considering it was past 2 o'clock in the morning. Her relief at finally making it inside melted into despair as she took in the staircase in front of her.

Right. Fifth-floor walkup. Crutches. And her exhausted arms refused to work.

She hobbled across the landing and slumped down, planting herself on the first step with an ungraceful thud and dropping her crutches beside her. She'd go up in a minute, just as soon as she could feel her arms again.

She buried her face in her hands and frantically did the math in her head when she thought about her meager bank account balance. She'd get paid for the guy she hauled in tonight, but beyond that… she'd probably get her W-2 soon, so her tax return could help out. Her Visa was maxed out, but she was pretty sure she had some wiggle room with her Mastercard.

She could do this. She might have to live off of peanut butter and not turn on her lights for the next eight weeks, but she could do this. She had to do this.

"Bad night?"

She jolted at the softly-accented voice, not looking up at the source and reaching to move her crutches out of the way so he could pass. "Sorry," she mumbled in the general direction of the pair of beat-up Converse in front of her.

Instead of passing and leaving her to her misery, he crouched down next to her. "Hey," he said softly, waiting until she looked up to see a pair of very tired, very blue eyes. "Are you all right?"

She gestured to her cast and shrugged. "You should see the other guy."

"Bloody hell, you were in a _fight_?"

Emma choked out a laugh in spite of herself. "Not really. I had to tackle a guy to get him in handcuffs, and this was the result."

He set down something heavy - a guitar case, she noted - and sat next to her on the stair. "You're a cop, then?"

"No, bail bonds. And I thought this city was a keep-your-head-down-don't-talk-to-anyone kind of place."

"What, you thought I'd just step over you and be on my merry way?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

He chuckled, and she looked at him, really looked at him for the first time. Dark hair. Scruff. A worn Beatles t-shirt under his flannel. A kind smile.

Okay, maybe not _everything_ about New York sucked.

"In case you can't tell from the accent, I'm not actually from here, so I don't subscribe to that particular philosophy." He stuck out his hand. "Killian Jones. I'm in 5A."

"Emma Swan. 5E. I just moved in a few days ago."

He glanced back at the stairs. "That's got to be quite a slog in crutches."

She sighed. "Yeah. I'm just resting my arms for a minute." She gestured to his guitar. "You a musician?"

He shrugged, a light blush crawling up his cheeks. "I try to be, but I mostly tend bar. They let me play sometimes."

No wonder he was getting home so late. "Well, at least you can still do that if you break your leg," she grumbled.

Realization dawned in his eyes. "And now you're out of work for a bit."

"Yeah."

"And the bills won't just pay for themselves."

"I don't want to talk about it," she snapped, and immediately felt guilty when she saw the look on his face. "Sorry," she sighed. "It's just… it's been a long night."

His expression softened. "It's all right, love. I shouldn't have said anything. I just know what it's like to live paycheck-to-paycheck."

Right. Bartender, struggling musician.

British. Gorgeous.

"I'll be okay if I can get my tax return fast enough. I think," she said, and _why the hell was she discussing her finances with a complete stranger_? Emma shook her head as if to clear it. "I should probably be going up." She turned to look up the staircase, which may as well have been Mount fucking Everest. This was going to take awhile.

"I could carry you, if you like."

Her head whipped around to find her new acquaintance with a shit-eating grin and a raised eyebrow.

"I have a gun, and I will use it."

He burst out laughing. "How very American of you."

She rolled her eyes. "I told you, bail bonds."

"Sorry, Swan, you can't blame me for trying. Let me carry your bag, at least?"

She sighed, hobbling to her feet - well, foot - and allowing him to take her satchel. "Fine. I just… why are you doing this? You don't even know me."

"Emma Swan. Bail bondsperson. Just moved to New York. Broken ankle." He ticked each fact off on his fingers and shrugged. "I know enough."

"Yeah, but - "

"Are you really telling me that you wouldn't offer to carry my bag if our situations were reversed?"

"No, but - "

"Then it's settled. Uh, word of advice from someone who's had a broken leg before?"

"What's that?"

"You're likely to break something else if you take the stairs with those things." He gestured to her crutches before slinging her bag over his shoulder and grabbing his guitar. "Better to sit on the steps and scoot up backwards. It's not the most graceful way to do things, but it's a hell of a lot safer."

"Absolutely not. I'm finishing tonight with my dignity intact."

His eyebrow quirked up again, and she started to wonder if he even had control over the damn thing. "Suit yourself. But I'm staying behind you the whole way in case you fall. And when that happens I will say 'I told you so.'"

"Whatever."

* * *

After two excruciating flights of stairs and three losses of balance that nearly killed them both, she groaned, handed her crutches to an increasingly-amused Killian, and sat down.

"Go ahead, say it," she grumbled, levering herself backwards and up the next stair.

"Oh, come on, Swan. I don't want to - "

"Just get it out of your system."

His smirk returned. "Fine. I told you so."

"Feel better now?"

"You know, dignity is overrated."

"Shut up."

* * *

She was breathing heavily by the time she made it to the top and took a moment to gather herself. Just the hallway now. She would make it, and take some of those stupid painkillers, and sleep for twelve hours straight.

Killian's door was right next to the staircase and he unlocked it while she caught her breath, depositing his guitar inside. She only caught a brief glimpse but it looked a lot like her own place - a simple studio, hardly any furnishings. Neater than hers, as there weren't unpacked boxes strewn everywhere.

Definitely paycheck-to-paycheck.

He locked up and held out his hand to her, helping her up and handing her crutches back to her. "Almost there, love."

"Thank God," she breathed. She expected him to hand over her bag but he started down the hallway instead, stopping in front of her door with an expectant look.

"5E, right? You coming?"

"What makes you think I'd let a stranger into my apartment?"

He smirked. "I don't; I just thought I could carry your bag the rest of the way. And as you were so quick to remind me earlier, you are armed."

"Fair enough." Her arms felt like noodles at that point, but she kept her grimace in check and forced herself across the hall, sighing with relief as she fumbled with her keys.

"Well, I'll be off," he said, dropping her bag just inside the door as she made her way inside. He very pointedly kept his feet in the hallway and only gave her apartment a passing glance. "I hope your day goes better tomorrow."

"Thanks, Killian. I just - thanks. You didn't have to do this, you know."

He smiled. "If I'm being honest, Swan, this was the best part of my night. I'll see you around."

He was gone before she could respond.

* * *

Emma barely left her bed - not so much a bed as a mattress on he floor - the next day, settling for a fog of painkillers and canned soup instead. Besides, the more she slept the less she would eat, and the less she ate the less she'd have to spend on groceries.

The sun was almost going down when a loud knock shook her out of her haze. She hauled herself up and fumbled with her crutches (God, her arms were sore), teetering her way to the door and glancing through the peephole.

Killian. He actually _winked_ at her through the little fish-eyed lens.

"Swan," he said without preamble as she opened the door. "I've got something for you."

"You… got me a present?"

"Well, not quite." He reached to his left, just out of her view, and triumphantly slid a well-worn desk chair in front of him. "More like a loan. I thought you might want to borrow this for awhile."

Something in her drug-addled mind couldn't quite grasp what he was offering. "A chair? I have a chair."

He smirked. "Not one with wheels. I thought you might find it easier to move around your apartment in this rather than wobbling around on those bloody crutches."

She just stared for a moment while her brain caught up to his words, looking down at the chair and back up to his absurdly proud face.

Emma swallowed down the lump she found forming in her throat and closed her eyes. It was such a simple thing, just a chair, for godsakes.

Such a simple, kind, unbelievably thoughtful thing.

"…Swan?"

She looked up at him and shook her head, forcing a smile. "Sorry, the painkillers are making me a little slow. That's just… thank you. This is really nice of you."

He tilted his head and gave her a tiny smile, his eyes far too understanding. "It's just a chair, love," he said, his voice soft. Giving her an out.

She swallowed heavily and nodded. "Right."

* * *

It was a debate Emma had become far too familiar with in the last week: go hungry for the night or get up and make more fucking Ramen, after which she would just be hungry again in two hours anyway.

Netflix (thank God for one-month free trials) won out, hunger be damned. She wasn't moving from her bed. She would sit here and distract herself with episodes of Buffy and _dammit_ her intercom was buzzing.

She lifted herself into the rolling chair next to her mattress, squeaking across the room and jamming the intercom button far harder than was necessary. "Who is it?"

"Pizza delivery."

Food she didn't ask for and can't afford. Great. The universe was taunting her now. "You've got the wrong person. I didn't order anything."

"Is this Emma Swan? Apartment 5E?"

"…yeah?"

"Then I've got the right person. It's already paid for."

"Look, I don't know what you - already paid for?"

"Yep."

Who the hell would - _Elsa_. This was precisely the kind of thing she'd do, and Emma felt a brief surge of guilt for not calling her since she'd moved in, a few texts with no mention of her injury their only recent communication. She vowed to set up a Skype date as she buzzed the delivery guy in and unlatched the deadbolt.

He turned out to be a bored teenager with a very large pizza who waved her off when she asked if he'd been tipped already (free food was free food, but she'd worked enough service jobs in her life to know to ask). Seriously, the pizza was huge, enough to last her for several meals if she didn't gorge herself right then. The kid didn't even ask her to sign anything, leaving the box on her kitchen counter and not bothering to pick up the receipt that fluttered to the floor or close the door behind him when he left.

Emma just rolled her eyes, her mouth watering at the smell of melted cheese and pepperoni. She wheeled over to the counter, bending down to grab the receipt before devouring her dinner.

She should have just crumpled the thing up and thrown it away, but Jesus Christ, 25 bucks for a one-topping pizza? 30, if you counted the tip. Everything was more expensive here, but that was just…

Jones.

The name next to the asterisked-out credit card number was _Jones_.

Killian. The charming, kind, thoughtful, _just as broke as she was_ musician.

She dropped the receipt and snatched up her crutches, swinging herself out of her apartment and down the hallway, not even bothering to compose herself as she knocked on his door so hard she was sure she'd have bruised knuckles the next day.

It only took him a moment to answer, a surprised and delighted look on his face when he opened his door. "Swan. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"You bought me pizza."

His face fell at her words. "You weren't supposed to know about that."

Oh God, that was even worse. "You can thank the lazy delivery boy who didn't give a shit."

His kept his eyes trained on his feet, his hand scratching at his ear. "I'm sorry, Swan. I wasn't trying to -"

"No," she cut him off, her voice getting away from her and almost cracking, dear God. "I don't want an apology, I want an explanation. The chair was really sweet of you, but this? You could buy almost a week's worth of groceries with what you spent on me. Why would you do that?" She nearly lost her footing, trying to readjust her crutches as discreetly as possible.

He dropped his hand and looked at her, really looked at her. He paused before speaking, his words carefully measured. "Emma," he said, her heart clenching when he finally used her name. "I had a very, very good night at work yesterday. A group of restaurant workers from another place came in after-hours and drank themselves nearly blind."

He smirked, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorway. "You know how well servers and bartenders tip, especially when they're three sheets to the wind. I had a few extra dollars to spend." He shrugged, his expression managing to be light and painfully earnest at the same time. "It seemed like a good use of it."

Something in her chest collapsed at the look on his face. He came into a few extra bucks and the first thing he thought of was _her_. People didn't _do_ things like this for her. "Killian, you can't -"

"Can't what? Buy dinner for someone who's having a bad week and could use a break?" He cocked an infuriating eyebrow. "Emma, when I first got here I was bailed out by my friends more times than I can count. They refused to let me reimburse them and simply told me to pay it forward. I'd like to think I'm making good on that promise, but you're making it exceedingly difficult. Please, for God's sake, take the damn pizza. It's the least I can do."

Emma found herself unable to speak for a long moment, her jaw dropping and then snapping shut as she stared at him. "You - no, don't -" Whatever words her brain tried to conjure died on her lips. Her lungs suddenly felt too small.

He smirked then, but his eyes remained soft and understanding. "Don't what?" His words were gentle but his eyebrow raised another fraction, daring her to fight him anymore on the matter.

She sighed. "Um… have dinner with me? I've got a pretty big pizza."

He smiled, a lovely, tenuous thing. "I'd be delighted."

In the end he only ate one slice, and Emma had leftovers three days in a row. It was the best thing she ever tasted.

* * *

The next week a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter turned up at her doorstep.

Neither of them said anything about it.

* * *

"Open up, Swan!"

Emma glanced at the clock - it only took five minutes longer than she expected for him to show up.

He looked almost angry when she opened the door, but his eyes widened in surprise as he looked at her, forgetting himself for a moment. "You're walking."

"Slowly, but yeah. They put me in a walking cast yesterday. I've still got another month, but it's better than nothing." She smiled and shrugged, not quite able to meet his eyes. "You can have your chair back now."

"That's not why I'm here."

"Yeah, I know."

He sighed. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about an anonymous pizza being delivered to my door just now, would you?"

She smirked. "Maybe."

He ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. "Emma. You're not working right now. You shouldn't - "

"My tax refund came in. I'll be okay, Killian. I just… I wanted to pay it forward."

Her eyes met his, silently begging him to understand, to hear everything she couldn't quite find the words to say.

He must have seen something in her face because his shoulders relaxed, the tension melting from his features. "You shouldn't have done that," he said quietly.

Emma smiled. "I know." Her words sounded calmer than she felt, her heartbeat thundering in her ears.

He stared at her for a long moment, a question in his eyes.

She took a tentative step towards him before reaching up, grabbing his face and pressing her lips to his.

It should have been awkward at first, a surprised noise rumbling in the back of his throat as he took a moment to catch up, and then oh. _Oh_. His hands slid around her waist, one settling at the small of her back and the other pressing upwards beneath her shoulder blades and she could feel his jaw working beneath her palm and -

It was as easy as breathing.

They slowed down after a moment, exhaling into each others' mouths as her fingers slid into his hair, not pulling in tighter but settling into him instead, the lone spot of light and warmth in a cold, lonely city. His stubble scratched at her jaw as his lips moved in slow, easy waves like the sea.

The delicious drag of his mouth on hers slowed as he pulled back, planting one, two, three light kisses to her lips before pressing his forehead to hers. She could feel his smile against her skin as he spoke.

"Have dinner with me? I seem to have a very large pizza and no one to share it with."

"In a minute," she said, and pulled him in again.


	2. Chapter 2

David's just entering the police station as she's on her way out.

"Hey, Emma! Dropping off your latest?"

She can't help but smile when she sees him. David Nolan was the first person in New York - well, other than Killian - to go out of his way to befriend her. The fact that he chased off the creepy sergeant who kept hitting on her was just an added bonus.

"Yeah. He didn't put up too much of a fuss, either. I wish they could all be that easy."

David glances down at her little black dress. "Fake Tinder date?"

She nods. "Thank God for the Internet, seriously. It makes my job so much easier."

"It's amazing how stupid some of these guys can be. We just had a guy brought in on Possession with Intent because his probation officer saw that he'd put pictures of himself holding bricks of pot on his Instagram."

Emma laughs. "You have got to be kidding me."

"Dead serious. Hey, my shift's over in an hour and Mary Margaret and I are going out for some drinks with friends. You should come! She hasn't seen you in a while."

That, right there, is why she likes David so much. For as much as she'd expected New York to be aloof and indifferent, Killian and David had quickly changed her opinion on the matter. "Thanks, but I already have plans. Rain check?" Okay, so her plans for the night involved sweatpants and Netflix; but these shoes were _killing_ her.

"Are you sure? It'll be fun - it's our last chance to ourselves before the in-laws come in for Thanksgiving."

"I'm good, but thanks."

"So what are _you_ doing for Turkey Day?"

 _Shit_. "Um. No plans."

David raises an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

She shrugs, trying to play it off. "Yeah, I was never really a big Thanksgiving person."

His frowns, his face growing earnest and _oh dear God_ is he going to - "Emma. You know there's a place at our table. You should have dinner with us. Mary Margaret would love to have you. You could bring Killian, too."

The offer - such a kind, genuine gesture - shouldn't hurt as much as it does. Emma plasters a smile on her face and hopes it looks natural. "That's really nice, Dave, but I'll be fine."

He doesn't seem convinced, but bless him, he lets it slide. "Okay. But you're coming to our Christmas party and I won't hear any arguments."

She feels her smile relax into something a little more genuine. "I wouldn't miss it."

It isn't until she leaves the station that she has to fight off the overwhelming urge to cry.

* * *

"You all right, love?"

She can feel Killian's words rumble through his chest, snuggled up to him as closely as she is on his couch. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"You've hardly said anything all night. And you're not paying a bit of attention to this movie, even though I know you've got a crush on Tom Hardy."

"Do not," she mumbles into his shoulder.

He chuckles, his fingers sliding under the hem of her t-shirt to caress the skin at her back. "You're a terrible liar."

She doesn't answer, just breathes him in and burrows further into his side.

"I'll leave it alone if you want me to, Emma. I just - "

"I ran into David at the station today."

"Oh?" Killian doesn't seem phased by her abrupt change of topic. "How's he doing?"

"He's good. He wants us to come to his Christmas party."

He gives her hip a quick squeeze. "Lovely. I've got the perfect ugly sweater to wear."

She smiles. "How ugly?"

"It's got snowmen, reindeer, and little sleigh bells sewed into it."

She feels Killian pull her in tighter when she laughs into his chest, an unspoken _there's the Emma I know_ pressed into her skin. "I can't wait to see it."

He hums to himself, presses a kiss to the top of her head. "I look quite dashing in it, I'll have you know."

"Mmm. I'm sure you do." She'll never figure how he does it, how he makes everything so easy. It's probably why she keeps talking.

"He asked me about my Thanksgiving plans."

Killian's fingers still against her back. "Ah. I've been meaning to ask you myself."

He's a terrible liar, too. She knows he'd never ask, would only wait for her to bring it up first.

"Can't say I've ever celebrated myself. Less than a week away, no?"

"Yeah. When I told him I wasn't doing anything, he invited me to have dinner with him and Mary Margaret."

"…and?"

"I told him no. I've had too many Thanksgivings as the odd one out in a big family."

Of all the things she loves about Killian (it took her far too long to tell him, the face-splitting grin he had when she finally said the words still one of her favorite memories), one of his best qualities is that he knows when not to speak. His hand leaves her side and finds her own, his fingers lacing with hers, a gentle encouragement for her to continue.

"I just… everyone has this big family dinner and traditions and I… don't. Even when I wasn't in a group home, holidays with foster families always felt awkward, even when they tried to include me."

"And they didn't always try." It's not a question. She gives his hand a quick squeeze in response.

They sit silently for a few minutes, wrapped up in each other, and Emma thinks that's the end of it. She even makes an effort to watch the stupid movie, even though the plot is lost on her by this point.

It startles her when he pulls away from her, looking down and forcing her to meet his eyes, which are practically dancing. "What do you say we start our own tradition, Swan?"

* * *

The turkey's a little dry.

Emma's not sure if it's because she didn't brine the damn thing (the internet wasn't all the helpful when she tried to figure out the best way to prepare it), or if her little oven's unreliability is the culprit, or if she's just not that good of a cook.

The entire morning is a frenzy between their two apartments, and they eventually just give up and leave their doors open to save time because their tiny kitchenettes can barely handle the amount of cooking they're trying to do at once.

Making real stuffing would take more bowls and time than either of them have, so they settle for StoveTop. But the mashed potatoes are delicious, the pumpkin pie smells heavenly, and the gravy turns out well and helps to hide the dryness of the turkey. Just a bit.

Her studio is fairly bursting with good food. She doesn't have enough counter space to hold it all, and her little bistro table with the two stools she got from Goodwill isn't quite big enough to hold everything, but her coffee table works well enough when they need a place for the pie and the basket of crescent rolls.

"So, Swan," he asks, halfway through their meal and through a mouthful of green bean casserole, "how's this for a holiday?"

She shoves a bite of stuffing in her mouth and chews on the answer, looking around her tiny apartment. It's more lived-in, now, with actual furniture and a few pieces of cheap art on the walls. It actually looks like it belongs to someone.

She swallows down her food and smiles across the table at this beautiful, infuriating, thoughtful man who gave her this, a real, normal holiday with fights over how to make the gravy and shuffling around the too-small kitchen that couldn't handle this volume of food and a glass of riesling once everything was finally _done_. The man who gave her something that was hers, something she could keep.

She tries her best to keep her voice steady. "It's perfect."

They're halfway through washing the dishes when he reaches out and stills her hands in the sink, forcing her to drop the plate she's holding and spinning her until her back is pressed against the counter, crowding her space and sliding his lips over hers.

He's absurdly warm pressed against her like this, and her soapy hands find their way up his back without a thought, not when he's nipping lightly at her bottom lip before plunging inside in a slow, hot slide against her mouth.

He doesn't pull back when he finally breaks away, instead choosing to drift across her jaw and neck with his mouth, sweet and warm and so, so soft.

"Happy Thanksgiving, love," he whispers against her ear.

She kind of can't wait until Christmas.


End file.
